by T. J. Klune
Phillip, who now sagged forward, his forehead against David’s shoulder, their arms at their sides. They were existing in the same space again for the first time in so long, but that didn’t matter, because it was familiar, and it was home, and it was everything David had missed since those toxic words had spilled from his mouth.
He couldn’t pick which words to say, because this seemed like one of the most important moments of his life.
It was Phillip who spoke first. Of course it was. That was always the way of things.
But the words were muffled into David’s shoulder.
“What?” David asked, wincing at how hoarse he sounded.
“Give me your keys.”
“Why?”
“David.”
David did. Their fingers brushed together. It was only a moment, but it felt like hours.
Phillip took a step back. His eyes were red, water on his lashes in little beads. He looked down at the fob in his hand, then back up at David. Back to the fob. He pressed the button, and the SUV beeped somewhere off to their left, the taillights flashing briefly.
“Let’s go.”
David didn’t know what was happening. “Phillip, you don’t—”
But Phillip was already walking away.
David could do nothing but follow.
He didn’t argue when Phillip got into the driver’s seat. He went to the opposite side and slid in, pulling the door shut behind him.
The only sound was the rain on the roof.
He held his wet coat and scarf in his lap. The umbrella went by his feet.
Phillip pulled off his own scarf, which he must have gotten back from the little hostess, tossing it in the backseat. He slid the seat forward, just a little. Fixed the rearview mirror. Gripped the steering wheel and breathed through his nose. Then he reached down, pushed the button, and started the SUV.
The screen lit up in front of them, the lights from the dash bright.
David looked away.
He leaned his head back against the seat, staring out the window.
He felt heavy, waterlogged and tired.
The heater came on.
The SUV began to move.
It wasn’t old. In fact, it was one of the first major things they’d done… after. It’d been at the beginning of year four and he hadn’t had a drink in three months, and there was this lull, this period between this new beginning and the inevitable end, where they’d almost been—well, not happy, and maybe not even content, but something more than what they’d been before. There had maybe been a little smile every now and then, and they’d even made love one morning when the sun was streaming in, the birds calling just outside the open window.
He couldn’t remember how it’d come up, but one day, a Saturday, they’d been at home, and then they’d been on their way to a dealership, trading in something old for something new. He’d haggled on the price, and Phillip had rolled his eyes, but it’d been something, and it felt like a little celebration, and even though he’d felt slightly guilty at the thought, there it was. He’d been through some shit and come out on the other side. He hadn’t woken up needing to count down the hours to when it would be considered socially acceptable for him to have a drink.
It was the eye of the storm, though they hadn’t recognized it then.
David had almost ruined it when they’d been driving back home, the smell of new leather around them. He’d said, “She’ll like this when she gets back.”
The silence that came then had threatened to suffocate them both.
Then Phillip had taken his hand and said, “Yeah. She will. We’ll have to go on a road trip.”
Neither of them had said anything when Phillip had sniffed and wiped his eyes.
David didn’t ask where they were going now. He thought Phillip would drive him back to his shitty apartment and then make his own way home, back to their house, their house where they’d spent the happiest days of their lives. Except it really wasn’t their house, was it? Sure, their names were still on the mortgage, and yeah, they hadn’t exactly talked about divorce, (“I think we just need some space,” Phillip had said tightly on that horrible day. “I think we just need some space from each other to decide what we want.”)
(And then, later, “David, this is Keith. He’s… a friend.”)
Phillip would go back to his (their) house, and they’d continue this strange, sad existence where they were both circling the same sun but stuck in orbits that rarely lined up with each other, making do with fleeting passes in the darkest parts of the night.
He’d said it for the first time in September 1992, that he hadn’t yet gotten his fill of David. It’d been three days, three days they’d spent together. David had been twenty-eight, Phillip a year older, and they’d been introduced at a dinner at a friend’s apartment over Labor Day weekend. They’d both arrived at the same time, which just happened to be fashionably late, and they’d bumped into each other as they walked out of the elevator. Phillip had blushed, and David had been charmed out of his mind. It’d been awkward until they realized they were heading for the same apartment, and it’d gotten even more awkward as they stood, wondering which one of them should knock. And somehow, they’d reached up for the door at the same time, their hands brushing together. They’d both been a little startled, chuckling and looking away.
David had thought, Hi, hello, who are you and why can’t I wait to find out? while finally stuttering out his name. And this man, this enchanting man in front of him had mumbled, “Hi, David. I’m Phillip. Phillip Moore. It’s very nice to meet you. I like your coat.”
Their hosts must have heard them outside the door, because it opened in front of them, Keesha looking back and forth between them before smiling widely and hollering over her shoulder, “Ronny! Looks like they did all the work for us!”
Three days later they were still together.
On that Monday before they both returned to work after the holiday, they’d left Phillip’s apartment for the first time since they’d gotten there the Friday after the dinner. The world looked a little different, the colors a little brighter. They’d found a fruit stand and had bought green apples, the crunchy tang that much sweeter. The sun was bright, the air warm, and everything felt new in a way it hadn’t before.
David was unsure of what was going to happen next, if this was just a onetime (three-day) thing, and when they’d walked back to Phillip’s apartment, he’d fumbled through some excuse about leaving if Phillip had wanted him to. They’d hadn’t kissed yet, they’d slept in the same bed, faces near each other, but that was it. But Phillip had given him that funny little smile and said, “But I haven’t gotten my fill of you,” and David thought his heart might just burst.
Their first kiss had been the following weekend. They’d been out for a drink, sitting in a dark little corner where no one could see them, and Phillip had been laughing at something David had said. He’d thrown his head back, baring his neck, and he’d just laughed. David’s mouth had gone dry, and even before he could think about it, he leaned forward just as Phillip had looked at him again. Their lips had brushed together, and they breathed and breathed, and it was a tremulous thing, the barest hint, a question posed where the answer wasn’t known. But then Phillip had smiled, and David felt it more than saw it, and even though it was probably dangerous for them to do this in public, they weren’t even thinking about that. Not then. Phillip kissed him sweetly, and David had thought, Here. This. This is what I want. This is all that I want.
It wasn’t, though. He hadn’t known there was something more that he could have.
But he found that out later, a phone call from Keesha’s mother waking them in the middle of the night, a teary voice saying, “Oh my lord, oh my sweet lord in heaven, they’ve gone with the angels, they both have, they’ve both gone right on home, but she is still here. God and Jesus saw fit to keep her safe, and they’re gone, but she’s not.”
And she wasn’t. At least not then. It’d ta
ke almost two more decades for that to happen.
Eventually, David felt the car come to a stop. It idled for a moment before it shut off.
He sat up.
He was about to thank Phillip for driving him back to his apartment, about to say Phillip could take the car and he would just come by and get it later when he saw where they were.
Home.
At their home.
It wasn’t the little house they first brought her home to, that one with the room with pinks and princesses and unicorns. No, they’d sold that house in 2002 and had moved to this house in Chevy Chase, wanting to give Alice a bigger yard, a better school district. They could afford it. The bookstore was doing well, and they were smart with their money, having saved every cent they could. They even had a college fund set aside for Alice with a nice chunk of change in it. The first day they’d seen the house, the realtor droning on and on about how much curb appeal it had, and would you just look at that front porch, Alice had tugged on her parents’ hands, making them lean down. She’d look up at them with those wide eyes of hers and she said, “I really like this place because it has lilies. Can you buy this house, please?”
Sure enough, there had been the lilies around the side of the house.
They’d made an offer three days later.
And here they had stayed until Alice went missing.
Then it had just been the two of them.
Until David said the things he’d only thought in the blackest part of his heart.
He wanted to ask why they were here. Why Phillip had brought him here.
A little voice in the back of his head asked, Did Keith ever come here? Is this where he kissed Phillip?
Instead, he said the most asinine thing he could think of. “The lawn looks good.”
Phillip snorted. “Get out of the car, David.”
David did.
As he shut the door, he almost took off running. It was a close thing. He almost ran down the short driveway to disappear into the rainy night. It’d be easier, he knew. It’d be easier than coming back ho—here.
He didn’t, though.
Still. It was close.
He held his coat against his chest, the rain cold against his hair and ears and cheeks. Phillip was already around the car and walking up the stone path toward the front door. It was too early for any lilies, and David was grateful for that. He wasn’t sure he could have handled seeing them right at that moment.
Phillip was up the stairs to the porch and almost to the front door before he must have realized he wasn’t being followed. He looked back over his shoulder. David hadn’t moved from where he stood next to the SUV.
“Come on,” Phillip said. “Come on.”
His feet wouldn’t move.
“David. Please.”
That got him moving.
It always did.
His steps were stiff, his knees barely bending, and he probably looked a little awkward and more than a little ridiculous. But he was moving, and that had to count for something.
He stopped at the bottom of the porch, Phillip facing him at the top. There were only four steps that separated them, but it almost felt like it was too much. Like if he took these last steps, there’d be no going back. He didn’t even know what Phillip wanted. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he just felt sorry for David. Maybe he had boxed up some of David’s books that he’d left. Maybe he wanted to sit David down at the table in the dining room, that mahogany beast they’d found at a specialty shop in Chinatown, and he’d say, “I wanted to see you because I’ve met with an attorney to figure out how to best divide up the assets. I wanted to see you because I think it’s time we end this, David, so we can both finally move on. I want a divorce.”
That scared David, almost as much as anything else ever had.
He deserved it. He wouldn’t blame Phillip for that.
People could survive for only so long in stasis.
Eventually, something had to give.
So, no. He didn’t want to go up those last few steps.
Because if that’s why he was here, if that’s what Phillip wanted, he’d have no choice but to give it to him, and then it would all be over. He’d be left with nothing.
He expected for Phillip to say please again.
He’d do anything for Phillip when he said that.
Even agreeing to end everything.
But Phillip didn’t do that.
He came down one step, then another, then another until he was standing just above David. They watched each other for a moment, eyes searching, David unsure of what he was looking for. But then Phillip reached down and took David’s hand in his, fingers intertwining. David gripped him tightly, and Phillip tugged him along, making David follow him up the stairs.
David did.
The wood creaked under their feet.
The rain pitter-pattered along the overhang above.
They were at the door, and Phillip didn’t let go, even as he fumbled for the keys. David tried to pull away, but Phillip wouldn’t let him.
He took a step out of the way when Phillip pushed the screen door open and watched as he slid the key into the lock. It clicked, and for the first time in a very long time, David watched as the door opened to the home that he’d built with his family, only to watch it crumble down around him.
He was overwhelmed.
He was consumed.
He breathed.
He ached.
He lived.
And God, the little death that followed when the door opened was extraordinary. It felt like he was being twisted inside out, like he was being torn apart and it was too fucking much, he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t fucking—
Phillip pulled him across the threshold.
And yes, he breathed.
It smelled exactly the same, like wood and furniture polish. Like those little cartridges that plugged into the sockets that promised to make a room smell like Hawaii or fresh linens or a forest caught in the throes of autumn.
He was having trouble catching his breath.
Phillip closed the door behind them, still not letting go.
There was a light in the kitchen, and David could see the outline of the table in the dining room. He didn’t want to go in there. He didn’t want to see the papers he would have to sign. He was not above begging and pleading.
But Phillip didn’t lead him there.
No, he pulled David toward the stairs, and up they went, the steps creaking under each step, the one near the middle squeaking obnoxiously as it always had.
And here. Oh, here was their story, set along the stairway on the wall for anyone to see. The framed photographs that were their lives together, showing that this had once been a family home, with a history that went back decades.
Here they were in the midnineties, both of them with terrible pencil-thin mustaches that made them, in Alice’s words, look as if they would hit on a girl by telling her that her hair smelled nice before asking her name.
Here they were, David and Phillip and Ronny and Keesha, and she’d been so pregnant then, looking like she was ready to pop at that very moment. She’d been smiling, radiantly so, but she looked tired, like she was done with everyone and everything. Funnily enough, she’d given birth twenty-three hours later to a little girl with a full head of inky black hair.
Here they were, at a party somewhere, Phillip sitting on David’s lap, both of them smiling, smiling, smiling.
Here they were, at a picnic in the park, Alice atop David’s shoulders, hands in his hair.
Here they were, Alice asleep on Phillip’s chest, face painted like a tiger from her birthday party, eyes closed, a little thin line of drool wetting Phillip’s shirt as she slept, tuckered out from her very special day.
Here they were, the three of them, her diploma in her hands, a wide smile on her face, David and Phillip on either side of her, both of them in ties, their eyes red, their own faces a little puffy.
And here she was, here she always wa
s, she was six and four and twelve and fifteen and eight and seventeen, and she was a baby and a toddler, a little girl and a preteen, and then a teenager until she was a beautiful young woman.
Here she was.
The last picture taken of her.
It was her nineteenth birthday, sixteen days before she disappeared. It was a Saturday. She’d gone out with friends the night before and was going to go out with friends that night as well, but she said that the day was for her daddy and her papa. So they’d woken her up at the asscrack of dawn, banging pots and pans as they climbed the stairs, bellowing out happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy biiiirrrrthday, dear Aaaaaaaaalice, knowing full well she was slightly hungover. She groaned and put her pillow over her face, yelling at them you are both terrible and I hate you so much, but laughing while she said it.
David and Phillip finished big just inside her doorway, smashing the pots and pans together, making as much noise as possible. She sat up then, glaring while hugging the pillow against her chest, and her hair a little funky and her eyes bloodshot, but she was their baby girl, and she was nineteen years old.
I can’t believe you two, she said with a scowl. It’s not even daylight out. You both suck.
David snorted. We both do. Your father is pretty good at—
David Greengrass, Phillip said. If you finish that sentence, you’ll won’t get to have that ever again.
David grinned.
Ewwwww, she cried, lying back down on her bed, pulling her comforter over her face. Old people should not be having sex.
Old, Phillip said, sounding sufficiently outraged. Who are you calling old?
The two of you.
Funny, David said. Especially since this is from a girl who is one year away from not being a teenager anymore. Then come the wrinkles.
Excuse you, she said, throwing the comforter off. Black don’t crack. Don’t be jealous.
Did you hear that, dear, Phillip said with an exaggerated sniff. Black don’t crack.
Whatever shall we do? David asked.
You could get out of my room and let me sleep, she said, squinting at the both of them.